


And you're fire, but sweet

by failurebydesign



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failurebydesign/pseuds/failurebydesign
Summary: “So did you come back for more?” Tyson smiles, despite feeling awkward due to his choice of wording. He doesn’t think he could make it any more awkward, though, and yet… “Or maybe you like tarts? You look like a fruit kind of guy. I mean, you’re in shape so you probably don’t eat a lot of baked goods.”Tyson opens a bakery about the same time Gabe moves into his apartment building.





	And you're fire, but sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somehowunbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/gifts).



> Thank you to my betas, you know who you are. ;)
> 
> Song title compliments flor.

Ever since he was a young child, Tyson dreamed of opening up his own bakery. With the soft launch just days away, he finds himself buried beneath paperwork and packages— deadlines looming over his flour-streaked head.

He wipes his hands on the front of his apron, looking over a tray of freshly glazed profiteroles. The chocolate, still warm, drips onto the wax paper beneath, pooling slightly and it takes a bit of grand restraint for Tyson not to drag his finger through it to sneak a taste. He smiles, knowing once they set, they’ll be _perfect_. As tempting as they are, Tyson resists with an exhale.

 _These are for later_ , he tells himself, carefully moving on to his next project of filling pink macarons with passionfruit ganache.

By 4 AM, Tyson has a wide array of cookies, pies and pastries that he doesn’t quite know how he managed to accomplish all on his own. Hiring a bakery assistant would be ideal and he adds it to his mental to-do list. There’s still plenty to do and little time to get it all just right.

It takes another good half hour to make sure all of his fruit tarts are set and situated in the walk-in cooler. Tyson turns, feeling rather accomplished having tackled it all on his own.

He’s proud when he stands in the doorway, bakery dimly lit from the street lamp outside. His dream, though still in progress, is there before his eyes, ready to come into fruition. It’s hard to tear his eyes away, tempted to flip the lights back on and check if his tarts are set. Then he looks at his watch— time edging closer to 5.

When he finally crawls into bed, flour-free and satisfied, Tyson falls asleep with visions of bright, colorful pastries in his head. 

..

Tyson’s new neighbor moves in on Sunday. He knows this because Nate mentions the guy in passing, but Tyson is on a deadline and was already out the door and elbows deep in flour well before the sun came out.

He thinks, briefly, that Nate could probably help him mix some batter, then laughs it off. Nate’s more of a taste tester and already made it pretty clear he has no intention of working for Tyson. It’s probably better that way, he thinks, sprinkling some flour on the counter and grabbing his rolling pin. Nate’s terrible with numbers and baking is an art that requires precision.

Nate must know Tyson’s thinking about him, or picks up on the the sweet almond scent that fills the air, wafting from the KitchenAid he’s left running. Either way, Nate appears in the doorway just moments after Tyson’s thought about him, which is pretty convenient.

“I was thinking of hiring an assistant,” Tyson admits, rolling out his pastry dough. “Sometimes two hands are better than one.”

“Good luck finding one,” Nate says, circling around the counter to peer into the mixer. There’s nothing ready to taste, but that doesn’t mean Nate won’t try. He lifts his hand, as if ready to reach in, when Tyson stops him.

“Don’t touch that.” Tyson sighs, holding back a laugh. “Do you even know what that is?”

Nate holds off, groaning. “It’s edible, right?”

Last time, he’d stuck his finger into a can of vegetable shortening, thinking it was whipped cream. Big mistake on his part. Tyson still brings it up from time to time because it served him right for being so nosy. “It’s almond puff pastry. Would you mind flipping that off?”

Nate, stupidly, _smirking_ , gives the bowl the finger. It’s… not what Tyson meant.

“The switch,” Tyson says, voice flat. It’s funny, but he can’t give Nate that satisfaction. Not when he knows what Nate’s going to say next.

He does, surprisingly, flip the mixer off, but then crosses his arms. “This doesn’t make me your assistant.”

“Then why are you here?” There’s no bite in Tyson’s tone, it’s just… he has a lot to do and Nate doesn’t typically stop by the bakery unless there’s a catch. “There’s some profiteroles in the cooler. You can have no more than two of them.”

“I saw the new neighbor,” Nate says, rubbing his hands together as he approaches the cooler. He disappears and Tyson, eyebrow raised, knows he’s likely to come out with more than two desserts. When Nate does pop his head back out, he’s holding an orange macaron.

Tyson can’t help but roll his eyes, motioning at Nate’s hands. “And you’re bringing him macarons?”

“No,” Nate says, popping it into his mouth. “This is for me.”

“I should have known.” Tyson sighs, dusting the flour from his hands. “Can I trust you to deliver some?” He doesn’t know much about his new neighbor, just that he’s tall and very blonde. Tyson takes care, packing up a variety of macarons— six to be exact— in what has become somewhat of a tradition. He wouldn’t dream of _not_ welcoming new inhabitants to his building without a welcome gift. It’s just… polite.

“Those purple ones,” Nate begins, head craning. “Can I have some?”

“I’ll save you some after you deliver these.” Tyson ties up the box with a soft, baby blue bow. He’s reluctant to hand over the package, but does, pretending not to notice when Nate rolls his eyes.

“I’ll deliver them, but this still doesn’t make me your assistant,” Nate says, taking the small box carefully. “And I’ll hold you to it. Payment in macarons seems fair.”

“You know,” Tyson says, rolling up his sleeves and going back to the dough with the most innocent of smiles. “Assistants get paid.”

Nate doesn’t speak— just groans— and heads out the door.

..

Tyson doesn’t physically see his new neighbor— who he learns is named Gabe, thanks to Nate and a quickly scribbled thank you note— until Monday. It’s just a glimpse, but it’s enough to leave him curious about the tall, blonde guy who thought moving to Denver mid-winter was a smart choice. Had he not been halfway out the door, rushing to his grand opening… maybe he’d have stopped and said hello. Tyson checks his watch— he’s three hours away from opening. There’s no time to stop and chat.

 _Next time_ , Tyson says to himself, promising he’ll give a proper introduction in due time. First he has a bakery to open.

It’s still dark when he leaves his apartment, not surprised to find that it’s already beginning to lightly snow. Tyson’s sure it’ll stop by noon— once the sun comes out and melts whatever sticks away. The roads are slick, to start, but he makes it there in one piece, shivering when he unlocks the front door. He locks it again, for now— there’s still a good three hours before he’s open.

Tyson looks over his cases, already filled to the brim with macarons in an array of colors and flavors. He’ll bake more things throughout the day— if time allows— but finds it much more aesthetically pleasing to look as if he’s prepared for a rush.

The sun comes up around 7 which is, luckily, about the same time it stops snowing. He finishes up his last round of tarts, lining them up along the bottom of the case just minutes short of his grand opening.

There’s no lines— no one wandering around outside, though Tyson isn’t that surprised. He never advertised his bakery and isn’t too sure how Denver feels about macarons. He knows how his friends, Nate especially, feel about them, but it’s different when it’s your friends who you’re feeding for free.

Tyson’s first customer is an older man looking for a good cup of coffee. He feels bad having to turn him down, but offers him a free savory croissant for his troubles. There’s a coffee shop across the street though and Tyson’s pleased to learn that their baked goods are less than desirable. Not that he’s in direct competition or anything.

When the sound of bells chimes and the door opens, Tyson expects another customer, maybe someone else looking for coffee. It turns out to be Nate. He’s late, though Tyson didn’t expect he’d actually come by on a work day of his own. Even more surprising, Nate isn’t alone.

EJ follows close behind Nate, waving, looking quite impressed by the setup. He isn’t the biggest pastry guy— he can’t tell a satin whipped frosting from a buttercreme one— but he’s _here_ , which is the biggest thing Tyson’s taking away from this moment.

He doesn’t recognize the third person at first and by the looks of things, he doesn’t recognize Tyson, either. He smiles, thinking maybe someone came in behind Nate and EJ, but then their eyes meet, Nate’s voice coming in somewhere in between.

“This is Gabe,” Tyson hears Nate say, though it sounds about a million miles away.

Tyson doesn’t watch a lot of movies— he doesn’t have time with most of his waking hours spent buzzing around the kitchen— but Gabe is there and then he’s moving forward, slowly, heading towards the counter Tyson’s standing behind and it all feels like a scene out of some cheesy Hallmark movie he’d normally turn off. 

“Hi,” Gabe says, holding out his hand. “Thanks for the macarons by the way. They were great.”

Tyson wipes his hand on the side of his apron because if there isn’t flour or batter there, then there’s definitely sweat and he doesn’t think that someone who looks the way Gabe does would appreciate a gross handshake. When they do shake, it’s firm, professional almost, and Tyson tries not to think about just how strong his hands are. He doesn’t know _what_ Gabe does for a living but it’s definitely not baking. 

“So did you come back for more?” Tyson smiles, despite feeling awkward due to his choice of wording. He doesn’t think he could make it any more awkward, though, and yet… “Or maybe you like tarts? You look like a fruit kind of guy. I mean, you’re in shape so you probably don’t eat a lot of baked goods.”

 _Oh my god_ , Tyson can hear his brain telling him to _shut up, shut up, shut up._

Someone— Nate, of course— laughs.

“I really like chocolate,” Gabe says with a blinding smile. “Nate said you make some really great things.”

“Oh,” Tyson nods, trying to keep his composure. He opens a case and retrieves a chocolate filled pastry, knowing he should probably charge Gabe, but— “It’s on the house. Nate’s already eaten enough on his own.”

Gabe take the pasty, smiles and then reaches into his pocket. He places a few bills on the counter which is more than enough for a single pastry and Tyson chews his lip, figuring that Gabe has to know better.

“You don’t have to—”

“I am,” Gabe says and it’s clear he won’t take no for an answer. “It’s your grand opening. You can’t give it all away on the first night.”

EJ snickers and Tyson tries _not to_ because the phrasing is far too suggestive, though likely unintentional. Gabe must catch on, because he raises an eyebrow, forming an ‘o’ with his mouth. Great, Tyson thinks, he’s cute _and_ clueless.

Tyson shoots his friends (and Gabe) a smile, but quickly busies himself at the other end of the bakery when a woman and her small child come in. He ends up selling her a box of macarons and several tarts because he makes her daughter laugh— something she hasn’t done _all_ day. Tyson can’t take full credit— he’s doesn’t know anyone who wouldn’t smile after a bite of a mini mousse tart.

“It’s been fun,” Nate says once the customer leaves, crossing his arms over his chest. “But we’re going to head out now. Don’t want EJ scaring all of the customers away.”

“There won’t be any customers if you keep eating everything,” EJ snaps back, smiling at the end of it.

Gabe, smiling and holding his bag close to his side looks a little amused, though Tyson can’t help but wonder if he’s silently asking what he’s gotten himself into. If Tyson’s being honest, he sometimes wonders how _he_ was roped into such a crazy circle, not that he’d trade it for the world.

They did skip work for his grand opening, after all.

When they leave, Tyson smiles. He tries to tell himself he only imagined Gabe lingering— that not everyone is awkward like him— that if he had something to say, he’d have said it. There’s little time to worry about the hypothetical, anyway. His oven chimes in the back and his next round of macarons is ready for filling.

..

The thing about running a bakery, Tyson learns, is that it’s a lot of work, but it’s also the best kind. He thinks of that cliche phrase— _love what you do and you’ll never work a day in your life_ — a phrase he’s come to fully understand. Tyson comes home smelling sweet, like sugar, clothes coated in flour and even when he’s exhausted, he always smiles.

He’s not at all surprised to see Nate show up daily, Gabe in tow. It’s a nice gesture until he realizes they’re pretty much inseparable— that Nate might be using _his_ bakery and _his_ baked goods as an in. 

It’s the end of a long weekend when Tyson brings out a fresh tray of eclairs to replenish the case when he catches Gabe leaning forward on the counter, mouth turned up in a grin. Nate is laughing but then stops, standing up tall when Tyson clears his throat.

“I should get going,” Nate says, eyeing the tray of eclairs. 

Tyson shakes his head but offers up two— one to each of them. “Guess I’ll see you two tonight?”

“We’ll see.” Nate smirks and something about it causes Tyson to hesitate. Nate, Tyson knows all too well, is up to something.

He gets a vague idea shortly after Nate leaves and Gabe doesn’t.

Tyson learns a lot about Gabe. He learns that he’s a freelance photographer— sort of. He’s working on call most days, which means if there’s a fire or something, then it’s his duty to get there before anyone else— because it’s competitive and the best photos make the most money. He learns that Gabe loves to travel, but found himself in Denver because the mountains seemed to call to him.

He also learned that Gabe, like him, has his own goals— that he’d love to open a business of his own someday— just a small, quaint studio space to call his own. Gabe, also like Tyson, takes great pride in his work. To him, it’s art.

“I could take some photos of your pastries,” Gabe offers, smile present. “You can hang them on the walls in here.”

Tyson appreciates it but his face falls when he thinks about the logistics of it all. “That sounds amazing, but I kind of used up my budget on this place in the first place. Maybe once I catch up? I have a few big orders coming up.”

“Deal.” Gabe nods.

It’s Sunday, so Tyson closes early. It goes much quicker with Gabe there to not only provide conversation, but help him clean up the back area. Though he doesn’t bring it up, Tyson briefly pictures Gabe as his assistant. It’s a thought he quickly shakes out of his head. Gabe has hopes and dreams of his own. Gabe has a job.

Luckily for Tyson, neither Gabe’s job nor Nate take him away from him for the rest of the day. When Tyson flips the open sign off, he gets his first view of the snow covered streets, watching as it falls to the ground. It hasn’t been snowing long, but he can tell it’s hitting hard.

“I take it you need a ride home?” Tyson can feel Gabe smiling before he looks at him. He looks up and he’s right, Gabe _is_ smiling and he’s nodding, too. 

“I didn’t mean to stay _this_ long, I thought I’d have gotten a call into work. But Nate said you’d—”

“Nate?” Tyson laughs. He’s felt stupid plenty of times, but this one, pun slightly intended, takes the cake. Of course Nate wasn’t trying to get Gabe for himself. He was planning to leave the two of them alone together all along. It’s enough to cause slight panic in Tyson’s voice when he speaks again. “He said I’d drive you home?”

“If it’s too much trouble, I can find another way back.” Gabe shifts his weight between his feet.

“No,” Tyson says quickly, reminding himself to breathe. Now that he’s caught on, he doesn’t want his crush to be blatantly obvious. “I mean, we live in the same building so it’s fine.”

Gabe pulls a toque from his back pocket and pulls it on. He’d neglected to bring a coat, which Tyson points out when they’re walking side by side to the car. Denver isn’t exactly the place to go without, especially when the sun’s hidden behind thick, dark snow clouds.

It’s a quick ride— about five minutes, once the two of them unbury his car— which is a bit unfortunate for Tyson. He doesn’t want to be stranded in his car, but if he were, Gabe would be the first person he’d hope to be stranded with.

Still, that doesn’t mean Tyson isn’t thankful to be out of the cold. When they make it inside of the lobby, Tyson’s pretty sure his toes are close to freezing off.

“Do you like the snow?” Gabe pulls the toque from his head and shakes out the small bit of snow that’s accumulated on top. His hair, Tyson notices, still looks pretty perfect— not like the slightly damp, messy mess that he’s sure his currently is.

“Most days, no,” Tyson shrugs, opting to leave his hat on for the time being. Snow, in theory, looks nice. He likens it to everything from a whipped satin frosting, or the stiff peaks of a proper meringue. “But I mean a white Christmas… that’s the goal, right?”

“That’s a song,” Gabe says with a smile, turning to look back out the window. Fat, fluffy snowflakes cover their footsteps and soon all traces of their walk will be erased— just a memory.

“Yeah, because who wants to listen to a Christmas carol about snow storms leading to terrible driving conditions and the dangers of black ice?”

Gabe laughs. “I might give it a listen.”

“You’re dark,” Tyson says, unable to keep himself from slipping up and smiling. There’s something validating about the way Gabe’s laugh makes him feel— like— his joke isn’t _actually_ funny. Last winter, Tyson rolled into a snowbank and was stuck for a good three hours. He remembers rolling his eyes, unable to back out, texting Nate with a this-is-how-it-all-ends selfie until one of them was smart enough to call for a tow. Tyson doesn’t remember who— doesn’t matter— just that… winter _kind of_ sucks.

Then Gabe runs his fingers through his already perfect hair and looks over his shoulder with a smile. “I think winter in Colorado is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

Tyson has to stop for a minute because he’s staring at Gabe, the snow, the mountains and suddenly he gets it. It _is_ beautiful.

“You’re smiling.” Gabe’s voice is what snaps him out of it.

“I, uh,” Tyson stutters. _Fuck_ , he thinks.

He stops thinking the second Gabe’s mouth closes in over his own.

..

They don’t date or anything, really.

Tyson continues spending most days at his bakery and as the week goes on, Gabe does, too. He’s not Tyson’s assistant, either, but Gabe’s not opposed to rolling up his sleeves and mixing some batter or running the cash register when things get busy. He doesn’t ask for payment, either, save for an occasional macaron or a stolen kiss in between a sample of some new filling flavor Tyson’s testing out.

By the end of the week, Nate comes home and corners Tyson in the kitchen. “Are you two dating yet or what?” 

“Dating?” Tyson clears his throat. Nate doesn’t know they kissed— he doesn’t think— and he’s pretty sure he wants to keep it that way… for now. “No, he’s just… we’re _friends_.”

Nate laughs. Not the chuckle _you’re-kind-of-funny_ laugh but a full on belly laugh that makes Tyson’s ears go warm. If he’s being honest, he’s feeling pretty called out.

“Have you hired him then?” Nate smirks, arms crossed over his chest. He has to know Tyson hasn’t.

“You know what he does for a living,” Tyson says, incredulous. They’ve seen Gabe’s work— beautiful landscapes, stunning portraits and close-ups that could easily hang in a gallery. He’s taken a few photos of Tyson’s pastries and macarons, but they’re still somewhere on an SD card and Tyson has yet to catch a glimpse of them.

“Yeah,” Nate laughs. “He gets a _ton_ of work done in _your_ bakery.”

“He’s not my assistant!” Tyson rolls his eyes. He’s tired of arguing— he’s just tired in general. It was a long day of baking and boxing up hundreds of rose and teal macarons for a wedding order that’s due first thing tomorrow morning. He finished, thankfully, but without an assistant— or conversation, despite what Nate thinks. “He didn’t come by today, anyway.”

“Scared him away already?” Nate must think he’s funny, because he’s at a record high of laughing at his own jokes.

Tyson chews his bottom lip because… what if? “Don’t say that. He was working.”

“Wait,” Nate says, sounding a bit more like an actual friend this time around. “Don’t be dumb. For some ridiculous reason, he actually thinks you’re cute. He probably just got caught up in something that needs his full attention. Don’t freak out.”

Tyson exhales. He’s _not_ freaking out. Much.

“You’re right.” Tyson runs a hand over his face, suddenly realizing just how tired he is. It’s early, only a little after 8:00, but his eyes are strained from filling macarons for 12 consecutive hours. “I’m going to bed.”

“Nighty-night,” Nate singsongs. 

It’s stupid, but it makes Tyson laugh. It’s nice to be reminded that as big of an idiot as Nate is— as big of an idiot as _he_ is— he’s still got a pretty great friend on his side.

Of course, as the universe would have it, Tyson is wide awake by the time he finally gets into bed. He tosses and turns until he considers getting back out of bed— to see if Nate’s still awake and willing to entertain, but the soft sounds of the television have long stopped. There’s no warm, familiar glow of light beneath his door and Tyson knows Nate must have gone to bed, too.

He finally drifts off, sometime in between dreaming up new desserts and thinking of Gabe’s smile, soft and warm. Tyson’s heart fluttering is his last conscious memory and the first thing he thinks of when he wakes the next morning.

It fuels him— _inspires_ him— to do something big— something _more_.

Tyson gets out of bed in a hurry, typing a text as he prepares for his new day.

He reads it over several times, finger hovering over the button before he finally forces himself to hit send:

_Dinner tonight? I’m cooking._

When Gabe responds— _sounds great!_ — Tyson smiles for the rest of the day.

..

It’s not a date, technically, but Nate makes up an excuse to work late (Tyson owes him _so_ many macarons) and Tyson finds himself in a mad rush to come up with the perfect dinner. He cleans his apartment, bakes teriyaki salmon and steams vegetables.

Dinner comes and goes without a hitch, but Tyson is Tyson and he wouldn’t dream of serving any meal up without his favorite course— the dessert.

He pulls the cakes from the oven, slow and steady. Tyson knows if he isn’t careful— isn’t delicate in his movements, the cake will collapse into itself. He’s steady when he turns the ramekin over with clumsy, mitted hands. The first one comes out easily and he’s pleased with how smooth it looks. The second isn’t quite so cooperative. Tyson shakes it, slightly, and it pops out. It doesn’t burst, luckily, but there’s a rounded corner left behind that he laments. This one he’ll keep for himself, he decides, when he sprinkles the tops with powdered sugar. 

Once both of the cakes are plated, Tyson crosses his arms, smiling at his work. It’s his favorite recipe— his favorite dessert— that’s never come out _this_ well before. When he lifts the plates, he comes to another realization— of all of the things Tyson’s put up in his bakery, this is one he’s never actually made it for anyone else, either. Gabe’s his first.

Tyson stops in the doorway, catching Gabe’s gaze unexpectedly. He’s been waiting.

“I don’t know what you made, but it smells really good.” Gabe cranes his neck in attempts to see the plated dessert that Tyson is so proud of. 

Tyson doesn’t mean to stop and stare, it’s just— he can’t help it. Gabe smiles, runs a hand through his hair and seems genuinely excited to see what Tyson’s made him. He has to force out a laugh to snap himself out of his daze. “Ever have chocolate lava cake?”

“No,” Gabe says, sitting up taller when Tyson walks over. “But if it’s anything like _kladdkaka_ , then I think I’m going to love it.” 

“Kla— what?” Tyson stumbles over the pronunciation, knowing he's better off not attempting a word in Swedish. He sets both plates down, one in front of Gabe, and then sits. 

“It’s a Swedish chocolate cake, dense and sticky and kind of like a brownie.” Gabe picks up his spoon, ready to dig in.

“This is better,” Tyson says, spoon in hand. “The first bite is the best one.”

Gabe, smiling, scoops a bit of cake onto his spoon, eyes widening when the chocolate oozes out. He brings the spoon up, taking that first, coveted bite with a long, drawn out _mmm_ , and Tyson knows he’s hit the nail on the head with this recipe yet again.

“You like that?” Tyson takes a bite of his own cake, smiling when he tastes warm, sweet chocolate.

“You don’t sell these in your bakery,” Gabe says in between bites. “These are really good.”

Tyson shrugs. Lava cake, to him, is a warm reminder of home. It’s a rustic, comforting recipe he holds close to his heart. It isn’t beautiful and delicate like a macaron. To Tyson, it’s just… cake.

“People really like the macarons,” he says, deflecting a bit. “Eclair’s are really popular this time of year.” 

“But this _cake_.” Gabe motions with a spoonful of the gooey, chocolatey cake towards the plate, eyebrow raised. “This is so good.”

“Of course it’s good,” Tyson says. “It’s chocolate. But…” He thinks about his bakery, lined with perfect looking petit fours and immaculately glazed fruit tarts. “Lava cake just… doesn’t fit.” Period.

Gabe doesn’t press, though Tyson has a feeling it’s because his mouth is full and he’s far too gone in the land of chocolate lava to argue much more than he already has. When he finishes it all, he sits back with a pleased smile. “You have to make that again.”

Tyson laughs, because he will— he _always_ does, but if Gabe demands it be in Tyson’s bakery one more time, so help him. “Maybe,” he says, smiling. It’s a little bit of a mistake on his end. Tyson doesn’t mean to mark their dinner as something spectacular. His filter just… fails him. “It’s supposed to be for special occasions.”

“Like dinner with the guy who lives in your apartment?” Gabe raises an eyebrow, but if there’s any gears up top, none are spinning. 

“Something like that,” Tyson says, hoping his smile gives it away that it’s about so much more than dinner and dessert. He’s not sure if Gabe misses the mark based on how quiet he is but then their knees bump and something clicks— like flame igniting just on time.

Gabe leans in a bit too quickly and their noses bump, but Tyson doesn’t mind— he likes the closeness. Tyson’s hand comes up, resting at the nape of Gabe’s neck and neither move for a split second. It’s the perfect time for Tyson to to let his awkwardness take hold and say something completely out of place.

“I just love lava cake.” He doesn’t know why _that’s_ what he says when it’s Gabe he’s looking at. Not that he loves Gabe, either, though the potential is definitely there. It’s a thought that sticks in the back of his mind, solidified when Gabe laughs, slipping away for the time being when their mouths meet.

It’s different than their first kisses, lingering when Gabe leans into it, Tyson refusing to let him go until he’s on his back, pinned beneath Gabe’s knee. He doesn't mean to break the kiss— he could kiss Gabe all night, time allowing— but his breath catches, head turning to find it again. 

“Is this okay?” Gabe’s voice is soft and Tyson nods because it’s _more_ than okay.

“Yeah,” Tyson says just above a whisper and pulls Gabe in to drive the point home. Gabe’s a little rougher this time, mouths parting, bodies pressing together. When Tyson tastes the slightest bit of sweet chocolate, he’s thankful for many things in his life, his lava cake rocketing towards the top of his list.

..

“Nate, I’m serious,” Tyson groans, pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the front door. He knows he placed his keys in the little marbled bowl by the front door, like always, except when he goes to reach for them, they’re just… gone.

“Did you lock them in your car again?” Nate rolls his eyes. “Go check.”

Tyson sighs, shrugging into his coat. It’s snowing, again. Of course. His car is unlocked, luckily, but there’s no sign of his keys anywhere. Head resting against the steering wheel, he swears under his breath. It’ll be the first day he’s late opening his bakery. 

There’s a knock at his car window that jolts him upright. He’s ready to tell Nate off for fucking with him, wiping at the already fogged window with furrowed brows. When he pulls his hand back, it isn’t Nate’s face that’s revealed behind the glass— it’s Gabe.

He’s smiling and, to Tyson’s surprise, he’s holding up a set of keys. His keys.

“Where did you find these?” Tyson slips out from the driver’s seat, making grabby hands for them. “Thank you, thank you. I was about to have a complete meltdown.”

“They were laying in the hallway,” Gabe says, handing over the keys, rubbing his hands together. He adjusts the camera bag that’s hanging over his shoulder and seems as if he’s waiting for something that Tyson can’t quite pinpoint. Gabe, typically, isn’t a hard read.

“Going to work?” Tyson tilts his head towards the camera.

“Nah.” Gabe shakes his head. “Just came back. You?”

“I am now,” Tyson says with a smile. “Thanks to you.” It seems like the perfect opportunity to kiss Gabe’s cheek but when he steps in, his boots slip a little and he more or less causes a minor collision between the two of them. 

Gabe steadies his hand at Tyson’s side with a laugh. “Snow’s slippery, Tys.”

“Shut up,” Tyson says, yanking the front of Gabe’s coat until their faces are nice and level. He’s not sure who moves first this time, just focuses on the contract of Gabe’s warm mouth against the cold, brisk air surrounding them. There’s a howl in the background— Nate— that he ignores for the time being. He’ll tell him off once he’s finished with Gabe.

Luckily for Gabe, he disappears back inside by the time they pull apart.

“Are you coming by today?” Tyson hopes the question is yes, though he knows Gabe’s been busier than ever with his portrait sessions. 

Gabe nods. “Give me a ride?”

“Right now?” Tyson blinks a few times and then thinks, _of course now, you idiot_. “I mean, sure, get in.” He shoots Nate a text, though knows it isn’t necessary— he had to have figured out Tyson found his keys by the makeout session he witnessed. Either way, it’s the polite thing to do.

He only ends up being about a half hour late opening up and luckily there’s no one waiting outside for his baked goods, which he’s thankful for. He’d have likely given them away for free had it been the case. 

“I think I’m going to try and make some mango guava macarons today,” Tyson says when he unlocks the front door, flipping both the lights and the open sign on. Something catches the corner of his eye and he turns around, jaw dropping when he gets a better look.

Several golden-framed photos line the back wall— macarons, eclairs, pastries galore— _his_ pastries. It’s something he remembers Gabe suggesting offhandedly— something he thought he’d do eventually one the money came in. “What— what are these?” 

“Do you like them?” Gabe walks up next to Tyson, smiling. “Stealing your keys was Nate’s idea. He was supposed to have them back before you woke up.”

“Gabe,” Tyson says with a laugh that sounds like a near cry. “They’re beautiful, but you know I can’t pay for these right now.” He frowns a little, hating to have to take them down when they’re the perfect addition to his little corner of the world.

“They’re a gift.” Gabe reaches down, taking Tyson’s hand in his. “You can pay me in another way. I don’t want your money.”

Tyson moves a little quickly— maybe a bit desperately— but he doesn’t care. He cups Gabe’s face, plastering his face with several kisses. Tyson’s laughing, but also knows he’s trying his best not to cry. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him. “Okay, I’ll make the lava cake,” he says in between his shaky laughter. 

“I was going to ask you out.” Gabe runs his thumb over the back of Tyson’s hand, giving it a squeeze. It’s possible he’s smarter than Tyson thought all along. “Can I have both?”

“Deal,” Tyson says, pulling Gabe in for another kiss, heart full. Just like that, he has a pretty good feeling that all of their dreams are about to true.

..

By next winter, Tyson’s bakery is successful enough that he’s able to hire an assistant that Gabe brings in one day. His name is Mikko and he’s a bit strange, but he’s friendly and willing to do whatever Tyson asks of him. He’s efficient enough at following directions, save for a few spills here and there. Tyson doesn’t question Mikko or where he came from— he’s just thankful for his arrival days before the busy holiday season hits full swing.

Tyson calls it fate, though maybe it’s just a bit of luck, but Gabe’s dreams come to full fruition shortly after he and Tyson make things official— when the building next door goes up for sale. Together, he and Tyson go in on it. A bakery-slash-studio, while unconventional, somehow just works. 

Gabe’s the first to suggest they hold birthday parties in the studio and Tyson learns just how much he loves his job the day a group of girls come in to have a princess photoshoot. Tyson carries in a tray full of treats only to find him surrounded by excitable eight year olds dressed from head to toe in tiaras and tutus. 

When he sets the tray down, it’s his lava cake that’s dead center.

“Who’s ready for dessert?” Tyson asks.

The little girls shriek and scatter, surrounding Tyson and the table. It’s loud, it’s chaotic and when Gabe looks over, smiling at him, Tyson smiles back. Outside, it’s cold and once again Denver is covered in a blanket of snow. He knows he’ll whine about it later, when Gabe helps him brush off their car.

In the moment, he’s happy. He’s warm. He wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
